Break Even
by Mabel Marsters
Summary: When you lose the love of your life, can you ever really get over it? Can a broken heart be mended? Spike isn't sure that he'll ever stop loving Buffy even though she seems to have moved on. Spiralling into depression will he find his way to happiness?
1. Chapter 1

Break Even

By Mabel Marsters

Chapter One

Spike opened his eyes and did what he did every morning these days – he groaned. Another day to fill. He didn't know how he'd get through each new day, but he somehow did. He sat up in bed and looked around the grimy room with distaste. He really ought to clean it. The one room bed-sit was filthy. Crockery was piled high in the sink in the kitchen, which struck Spike as odd as he couldn't remember the last time that he had actually cooked anything. The bin overflowing with fast food cartons told a more accurate tale of the state of his diet.

Spike scratched his balls absentmindedly as he flopped back onto the pillow. Maybe later, huh? He'd give the place a right going over today – only not just yet. Eventually, he climbed out of the bed as his bladder screamed its need for release. He walked to the tiny bathroom in the corner of the room. Spike sighed with relief as he pissed for what seemed like hours.

_Hmm, better splash some bleach in the toilet when I clean the flat. _

The bowl was stained brown. A large part of him was disgusted at it. But a bigger part of him just didn't have the energy to care. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror above the basin as he washed his hands.

_See, Mum, I'm not a total slob. I still wash my hands when I've had a piss._

He ducked his head at the sight of the shadows beneath his eyes, his lank dirty hair and several days' growth of beard. He hated what he'd become but he just couldn't get himself together enough to do something about it. Spike turned the radio on and then switched it straight off as Katrina and The Waves bleated about 'Walking on Sunshine'.

"Bollocks!"

His voice sounded hoarse. When had he last had a proper conversation with anyone? He'd had his sunshine but she'd walked out on him. He'd fucked up and she'd upped and left him. He'd made sure that most of his friends disappeared too. There was only so much whining a friend could take before they started to avoid it. Spike slumped down onto the bed, which was the only thing that he could sit on apart from the wonky stool at the kitchen counter. He buried his head in his hands and sobbed. He couldn't carry on like this – he knew that. He wasn't stupid, but he had no idea of what to do.

He hadn't always been this pathetic. No, he'd once thought that he had everything a man could wish for. He could see her now, as clearly as if it were yesterday. She was beautiful, so slim and pretty, the way her hair seemed to catch the light even on a dull day. It was when he'd been working in L.A.; he'd literally bumped into her on the corner of the street as he had been out to get coffee and donuts for everyone. The coffee, of course, had ended up all over her. Spike managed a ghost of a smile. The stain had never come out of her lovely lemon coloured summer dress, despite him insisting on having it cleaned for her. The way that she had smiled at him even though he'd soaked her through brought fresh tears to his eyes as he recalled it. He'd gotten her name and number and had walked back to work in a daze, then promptly got a bollocking for not getting any coffee and donuts!

Spike rolled over on the bed and lay on his stomach. He crossed his arms and laid his head on them. How had he managed to not only let her go, but have her hating him too? They'd met on that same corner for their first date. Buffy had insisted on meeting him there, as it was halfway between where the two lived. It had started as a bit of a joke. He'd been waiting there for her with a chocolate coated donut and a latte – skinny of course – when she had arrived. It had broken the ice nicely. They'd shared the donut but the coffee had been thrown in the trash.

Spike had never been so nervous on a first date in his life and he'd had plenty, and plenty of second and third dates too. A penniless musician held a bit of romantic appeal to most girls. His blue eyes and bleached blond hair didn't hurt his chances with the opposite sex. But when he set his eyes on Buffy for the first time, all covered in icing and coffee, he knew. She was _The One_. He had truly believed that the perfect partner was out there waiting for him but he never thought that he'd actually find her. He'd expected to settle, like most did, for Miss Almost Right, but in Buffy he had hit the jackpot. He was petrified that she wouldn't recognise him as her version of _The One_. And how did a wannabe musician with, let's face it, not great prospects, convince this perfect person that she should want to be with a slim, bordering on skinny, not overly tall Englishman? Of that he had no idea – hence the terror.

Spike's stomach rumbled loudly, interrupting his trip down memory lane. It was a well trodden lane. He followed it daily. He reluctantly got up and wandered to the kitchen area to see what he could find. After opening several cupboards, he had found an out of date can of tomatoes and three mouldy slices of bread. He tried to remember when he'd last eaten. It was yesterday, wasn't it? He glanced at the bin. Balancing on the top of it were three empty Budweiser cans. But he'd eaten something with them, hadn't he?

"For Christ's sake, Spike, this is bleeding pathetic."

He walked to the bathroom and stepped into the shower. He always slept naked - saved on washing pyjamas if nothing else. He managed to get lather on his sponge with the tiny piece of soap in the dish, making a mental note that he really ought to buy some more of that too. _Food, bleach, soap, check!_ He washed his too long hair with the same bit of soap. _Add shampoo to the list_. He got out and dried himself on a large towel. Spike felt smug when he could squeeze an ample amount of toothpaste on his brush. _See, not that bad at housekeeping._ He dragged a brush through his hair after roughly towelling it dry.

A rummage in the wardrobe yielded a pair of clean jeans and a wrinkled but clean t-shirt. He hesitated before he put it on. It was the one that he had worn on that first date. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply before pulling it over his still damp hair. He wasn't so lucky with the hunt for a pair of socks. He settled on one royal blue (when had he ever owned royal blue socks?) and a black one. His trusty battle-scarred boots were found in a corner near the door. His jeans hung loose on his hips. He grabbed his wallet and walked out into the hallway. The stairs as usual stank as if someone had pissed on them. Spike pushed open the door to the outside and squinted in the light. Not that it was very sunny. London on a June day was quite often not particularly sunny. Not like L.A.

Spike slapped his face hard. "Fucking stop it!" A woman crossed the street as she saw and heard him. _Oh, great! Now she thinks that I'm a bleeding nutter. And I'm not!_ He ignored the part of him that queried his last thought. He walked to an ATM machine and pushed his card in. He hated using the thing. The number he had to key in was, by some evil quirk of fate, the month and day of Buffy's birthday. He pressed the keys as quickly as he could. Selected £40 option and waited nervously to see if it would let him have that much. He was so delighted to see the money pop out that he grabbed his card and cash and didn't check his balance. He'd a horrible feeling that his parents had put some money into his account again. _Christ, I'm such a loser. No wonder Buffy left me._

Only that wasn't the way it had happened at all. Far from being a loser, Spike had just sold several of the songs that he'd written. He'd hated doing it – he wanted to be the one to sing them – but he had to try to get his name out there for the industry to see somehow. He was on the brink of major success – according to his agent anyway. Spike had just been delighted to have some money coming in from his music. Maybe one day soon he'd be able to drop the office job and concentrate on his music full time?

It had been an idyllic few months. He was sure that even rose tinted glasses couldn't have made them any better. To his utter delight, Buffy seemed to feel the same way about him. They always met on that corner. Spike didn't own a car. Being brought up in London, with its excellent public transport, he'd never bothered to learn to drive, preferring to spend any spare cash on things related to his music. Now he wished that he had. He wanted to chauffeur Buffy around, not meet on a corner. Everything had been perfect. They were soon inseparable. Unlike the other girls that Spike had dated, both in London and L.A., Buffy resisted his charms for six dates. Spike had almost been afraid to take that final step, when she had eventually agreed to go home with him. He'd called his roommate, Oz, and asked him to make himself scarce, as they had left the restaurant. He could remember how his hands had been shaking as he undressed her. How she'd smiled at him and put her hand on his, before kissing him and just pulling the blouse over her head without unfastening the buttons. Christ, he'd almost shot his load then, like a teenager on his first time. In the end, it had been heaven. Pure heaven.

Spike shook his head. Would he ever have a bloody day when she didn't fill his thoughts? He glanced up and saw that he was at his destination. An egg McMuffin would hit the spot. He ran a hand over his concave stomach. _Better make that a couple._ He queued up, surprised at how many people were in the fast food restaurant so early in the morning.

"Two egg McMuffins, please," he said politely.

"They're not served after eleven," the sullen, spotty faced girl at the till informed him.

Spike smiled his best smile. "Aw, come on, a couple of minutes overtime. No one will notice."

The girl blinked. "It's one thirty pm. Can I get you anything else?" _What a weirdo__. _

"One thirty?" repeated Spike stupidly. _Christ, I've only just got up._

The girl cleared her throat but before she could say anything, Spike blurted out the type of burger meal that he wanted, and agreed to it being sized up to whatever the hell it was for an extra few pence. He snatched up the tray and hurried to an empty table in the corner. He sat with his back to the room. As he ate, he reflected on the time that he'd been with Buffy. Yeah, memory lane was definitely a well wornwell-worn path. The trouble was it seemed like it was circular. Never ending, without any forks in it to choose and move on in a new direction.

They had beenwere blissfully happy. Poor Oz got used to Buffy staying over just about every night. She still lived with her mother and younger sister and so staying overnight at her place was out of the question. He was inspired and the song writing came easy. He sang them to her as soon as they were finished. He grimaced as he sucked up a mouthful of coke from the cardboard cup that was about as big as a bucket. He hadn't written one word of a song since he'd gotten back to London. But he couldn't help being upset, could he? It'd pass. He'd get over it. Just taking a bit longer than he thought it would.

Looking back it was totally bloody ridiculous that he lost the love of his life because of a stupid high school reunion. Their first argument had been their last. Spike shouldn't have gone. He hadn't planned on it. He was actually playing at a concert that night-an acoustic set opening up for an established singer. It was a big opportunity for him. It was rumoured that some scouts might be in the audience and not the 'let's all go camping' kind of scouts. When it had come up, Buffy had insisted that he do it and had told him that she'd go with him. Spike knew that she'd been looking forward to the reunion for months and so had insisted that she still gowent there. It wasn't like she hadn't heard him play, was it? He gave her the money for the cab so that she'd stay at his place and not go back to her mom's.

He'd played his set, and as he was packing up his guitar, a man approached him. He gave Spike his business card and suggested that they have a chat over a drink. Spike looked at the card suspiciously – he'd heard it all before, then almost dropped his guitar with the shock. He recognised the record label that the man represented, hell; he recognised the man's name! By the time the two had parted company, with an appointment booked for Spike to go for a formal meeting the following week, Spike was buzzing. He couldn't face sitting in the empty flat waiting for Buffy to come home, so without giving it a proper thought he climbed in a cab and told the driver to go to the High School. Ever done the wrong thing?

He handed his beloved guitar into the cloak room, paying double to make sure that they looked after it well. He walked along the corridor and upped the pace as he heard the fast pop song get replaced by a slow one, one that he and Buffy loved. He pushed open the doors to the hall and scanned the people standing around the dance floor for Buffy. He was just looking back over the room when his heart missed a beat. She wasn't being a wallflower. She was in the arms of a tall dark haired man in a sharp business suit. Spike could see how shiny his shoes were from where he stood. He glanced down at his old boots that hadn't seen any polish since the day that he had bought them. His favourite black Levis were now faded to grey. He felt under dressed with his Foo Fighters t-shirt on.

He should have just walked over and politely cut in, got rid of the big goon and whispered his news in Buffy's ear. But he didn't; he was frozen to the spot. He snatched a glass from a passing waiter's tray, not caring what it was as long as it was alcohol. He knocked it back whilst watching the pair on the dance floor. The way the man's hands caressed what only he should hold. The way she smiled up at him and snuggled into his chest. Spike felt sick.

"You haven't got a name badge." The voice made Spike jump. He turned to see a brassy blonde standing next to him with a bossy look on her face.

"I didn't go to school here. I just know someone who did."

He was surprised that he had actually managed to speak, his mouth was so dry and his heart was making up for skipping that beat by racing so fast that he could hear his pulse pounding in his ears. He looked back at Buffy and _him!_ Was the song never going to sodding end? The blonde, Harmony, as her name badge proclaimed, followed Spike's gaze.

"That's so sweet, isn't it? After all these years, those two are just back to being like they were in school. They were the prom king and queen, of course. Don't they make a lovely couple?" She leaned in close to Spike. "They're both single. I heard them talking. They only split because Liam was so focussed on his career. He's a hot shot lawyer now. Did you see the Ferrari in the parking lot? Buffy's so lucky."

"Ain't she just," croaked Spike.

How could he compete with that? The meeting next week would probably lead to nothing. Why shouldn't she opt for someone with a 'proper' job as his father would say? The song finally ended but Spike let out an anguished groan as the couple kissed and walked off the floor hand in hand. Spike swore that he heard his heart break right then. He turned and fled the room, bumping into the waiter, not caring as he heard the tray crash to the floor.

"Spike!"

He heard Buffy yell but kept on running. It wasn't until he got out of the school and in the parking lot that he realised that he had nowhere else to go unless he walked all the way back to his apartment. He leaned against a car and struggled not to cry like a bleeding ponce.

He heard running feet and his name being called again. "Spike! What are you doing here?"

_What are you doing here? Not, it's great that you came, I missed you!_ Spike looked up and saw her hurrying towards him, closely followed by the big git.

"Buffy? Are you okay?" Liam said as he caught up to her. He glared at Spike. "You'd better not scratch the paintwork, buddy."

"What?" Spike looked round at the car that he was leaning on. _Oh, it just had to be, didn't it? A red Ferrari. Great. _He pushed himself off the car with the palms of his hands. "Maybe I should just paw it all over and then stick my tongue down its throat?"

It was Liam's turn to say, "What?"

Spike pointed at the car. "That's yours." He pointed at Buffy. "That's mine."

"Spike!" yelled Buffy. "That's mine? How dare you talk like I'm something that you own?"

Spike glared at her. "I thought I did, until I saw you licking this fucker's tonsils in there!"

Liam stepped between Buffy and Spike. "I think that you'd better calm down and watch your mouth in front of the lady."

"The lady? The sodding lady! That's my girlfriend and I'll say whatever I fucking want to, you big arsehole." _Real mature, Spike. Way to go!_

Liam began to raise a fist, but Buffy got hold of it. Spike always remembered how tiny her hand looked on that bastard's arm. "Angel, don't hurt him!"

Her words were like a red rag to a bull to Spike. Not only could he not compete in the money and flash car stakes, now she thought that he wasn't capable of looking after himself. Being on the short size had its advantages. He took two swift steps towards Angel or Liam or pillock, take your pick, jumped up slightly and ducked his head forwards, his forehead connecting with a very satisfying crunch on the big git's nose.

_Shit, that hurt!_ He looked at Liam. _But not as much as that._ Blood was dripping from his nose onto his poncey designer lilac coloured tie. Spike was smiling as he turned to Buffy. His head snapped back as Buffy slapped his face. He put his hand to his cheek in shock. "Why did you do that?"

"Because you're a thug and an idiot. Do I need to go on?" snapped Buffy. She turned to Liam. "Are you okay?"

Liam rolled his eyes but to his credit didn't point out that blood streaming from a broken nose probably meant that he wasn't okay. He nodded, then winced, then muttered, "Yeah."

Buffy turned to Spike. "What the hell are you playing at? Going all Neanderthal?"

Liam smirked at Spike over Buffy's head, which didn't help Spike's temper one little bit. "How do you expect me to react when my girlfriend is snogging the face off her ex the minute she goes out without me? Telling everyone that she's sodding single! What was it? The designer suit? The car?" He pointed from his chest to hers and back. "Did this mean so little? Did _I_ mean so little to you?" He bit his lip as he heard his voice tremble.

"You don't know me at all if you think shit like that matters to me! Angel is an old friend – one that I haven't seen for ages. We were just having some innocent fun," shouted Buffy, her guilt at kissing Angel making her irrationally furious with Spike. She'd meant to kiss him on his cheek after the dance but he'd moved so that their lips had met. She didn't know why she'd kissed him back but it had meant nothing to her.

"It didn't look very fucking innocent to me!" Spike wondered if it was being in a school yard that was making him act like a jealous teenager.

"So, now you don't believe me or trust me? Tell me, why am I with you at all?"

Buffy began to cry. Spike went to go to her but found a huge hand on his chest. "I meant what I said. You need to calm down, buddy. Maybe then I won't press charges for assault. I take it that you're here on some sort of visa?"

Spike glared at him. Typical sodding lawyer, threatening him with that. He swatted Liam's hand away. "Buffy?"

Liam put his arm around her and to Spike's dismay Buffy leaned into him. "Shall I take you home, now that the evening is ruined?" Liam asked.

Buffy nodded miserably.

"Buffy, please," begged Spike. "I'm sorry. I'll take you home to your mom's or my place?" He knew that he shouldn't have said his place the second it was out of his mouth.

"I don't want to be with you, Spike," said Buffy.

Spike thought his knees were going to give way. "What, tonight? Or ever?" His voice was low.

"I don't know, Spike. I just don't know," Buffy sobbed. She had never seen this jealous side of Spike. Or the violent side. How well did she really know him at all?

Spike stood dumbfounded as he watched Liam walk Buffy to the passenger side of his car and help her into the seat. The door closed with that soft clunk that only the most expensive of cars make. It set Spike's teeth on edge. Liam brushed past Spike as he moved to open his door. Spike made yet another mistake, grabbing Liam's arm and pulling him round to meet his fist. He connected soundly on the taller man's cheek but the big sod barely flinched. Spike heard Buffy yelling at him again. He thought that Liam was going to punch him – he hoped that he would – anything rather than have him get in that car and take Buffy away.

Liam grinned at Spike. The little English asshole was digging his own grave as far as Buffy was concerned. She'd told him that she'd enjoyed the dance but wouldn't have another because she was with someone and yet, here he was just about to drive her home. Angel wanted to pound the idiot into the dirt but he knew that he'd be way ahead on points if he rose above it. So he simply straightened his bloodstained tie and pushed Spike away. "Go home, boy, preferably to your native land." He folded himself into the seat, pulled the door shut and drove away, revving the engine loudly.

"Fuck it!" roared Spike.

How the hell had this happened? He'd been so happy, so excited and now he'd acted like a total tosser and Buffy had just driven off in a car worth more than he currently would earn in several lifetimes. Why had he over reacted? He loved Buffy so much that he could and would forgive her anything. Why hadn't he kept his mouth shut? He went back inside to retrieve his guitar from the cloakroom and steadfastly ignored all the strange looks that he got, and then he set off walking away from the school. Spike reckoned it was about four miles back to the apartment. _Twenty three years old and can't bleeding drive. What a joke!_ He decided that he'd talk to Buffy in the morning, grovel if need be. They'd be all right. They had to be. They were meant to be together.

A toddler spilling his drink and bursting into tears brought Spike back to the present with a start. He looked at the half eaten congealing burger and pushed it away in disgust. He got up and carried the debris of his meal to the waste bin, throwing it in. He walked out on the street and headed to his flat, shoulders slumped and his hands shoved deep into his pockets. Things hadn't gone quite as he planned the next morning either.

It wasn't until he was lying on the bed staring at the ceiling that he remembered that he hadn't bought any of the things on his list.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Break Even

By Mabel Marsters

Chapter Two

The next few days carried on as the preceding ones had. They all followed the same format. Good intentions were never acted upon. The all encompassing lethargy that had surrounded Spike for so long, maintained its strong hold on him. The flat didn't get cleaned. He never managed to climb out of bed before noon and he went outside only to buy food.

The only thing that he did without fail was to send a text message to his parents once every fortnight to let them know that he was okay. It was a lie – they knew it and he knew it – but at least it told them that he was alive. They had given up trying to get him to come home or visiting him at his flat when Spike made it more than plain that they weren't welcome. They made sure that his rent and utilities were paid and just hoped that he would come through it.

There was a sharp rap at the door. Spike looked up in surprise. No one ever knocked at the door.

_Shit! Has the bank refused payment for my rent? _

He decided that the best course of action was simply to ignore it. He rolled over on the bed and closed his eyes. The rap turned into a pounding that shook the door on its hinges.

_Oh, fuck off!_

Spike pulled the pillow over his head to block out the noise.

"Spike! Come on, man. I know that you're in there!"

Spike sat up quickly. _Oz? _

"For God's sake, Spike. Answer the freaking door!"

Spike looked around in panic.

_Christ, the place is disgusting. _

He got off the bed and pulled on jeans and a t-shirt before picking up a £10 note and some coins from the counter. He stuffed them in his pocket and walked to the door.

_No way is Oz coming in here. Last time I saw him I was…I was…_

His mind wandered back to the morning after the debacle at the reunion. He'd called Buffy's cell but it was turned off and when he called her home, her mom had picked up and told him that Buffy had asked him to give her some space. Joyce sounded cold and Spike could understand why. He tried to explain but Joyce had cut him off, telling him that it wasn't actually anything to do with her and that it was up to Buffy what she did or didn't do.

"I need to see her, Joyce," Spike pleaded. "I'm coming over."

"She's not in, Spike. I'm not just saying that. She went out with an old friend that she met at the reunion," said Joyce sternly. "She was very upset when she got home last night."

"I know, I know. I messed up but I love her, Joyce. Did…did she go out with that Liam or Angel or whatever the prick was called?"

He winced as the connection was severed. He banged his head slowly against the wall. Why the hell had he said that? _Sodding idiot!_

Spike decided to go to Buffy's home and if her mom wouldn't let him wait inside then he'd wait on the street. He called a cab. He'd had enough of bloody walking after the night before. When he got in the cab, his heart was pounding fit to burst. He had to make it right. He leaned forward in his seat, looking out the front window as they turned onto the street where Buffy lived.

"Stop! Pull over here!" Spike yelled.

The cabbie glanced at him in his rear view mirror but pulled in to the curb. "I thought you wanted to be at the other end of the street?"

"Shut up!" howled Spike.

His eyes were fixed on the sight of a red Ferrari parked in front of Buffy's house. As he sat there, he saw the git from last night walk to the car, get in and drive away, revving the engine in the irritating way that people who own 'super cars' always do. Spike's heart fell to his boots. That was the friend that Buffy had been out with? No wonder that Joyce hadn't wanted to tell him. There was no way that he could compete with that.

"Um…I've changed my mind. Can you take me back, please?"

Spike's voice sounded so utterly defeated that the cabbie stared at him in his rear view mirror, and was worried at how pale his fare had become.

"Are you okay, buddy?"

Spike slumped back in his seat. "Yeah, just take me home."

The cabbie shrugged. "You're the boss."

Spike got the cab to stop at a liquor store and wait for him. He ran out clutching the brown paper bag as if it were precious; which in a way it was. Spike needed oblivion and he needed it fast. He felt like he was going insane. God, it hurt so much. He climbed back in and five minutes later, he was outside his apartment. He gave the cabbie a large tip and went inside.

Oz was out – he was at work, like Spike should be. Spike grabbed a glass from a kitchen cupboard and sat on the sofa. He stared at the bottle of Jack Daniels for a moment before he unscrewed the top and sloshed a large measure into the glass.

"Cheers, Jack," he said, raising his glass to the bottle.

The tears that he'd been fighting since he'd seen the bleeder's car suddenly were unstoppable. He knocked back the liquor in a couple of swallows before burying his head in his hands and crying like a baby. How had he fucked up so badly? Not just in what he'd done last night, but in thinking that Buffy was _The One_ in the first place. He had thought that they'd be together forever – soul mates.

"Huh!"

He didn't bother with the glass and just swigged from the bottle. His heart felt as if a piece of it had died.

By the time that Oz got home that evening, Spike was a complete mess. He was totally wasted and sprawled on his bed. Oz could smell the liquor as he walked in, and he groaned. _Didn't go well, then._

"Hey, buddy," Oz said as he walked into Spike's bedroom.

Spike raised his head and opened a bloodshot eye. "Oh, God, Oz. I've lost her. I fucked up and I've lost her." He sobbed.

"She'll calm down, Spike. She'll come around."

"She's been out with that poncey git already," replied Spike, letting his head flop back on the pillow.

"You don't know that for sure. I thought you said that Joyce wouldn't tell you who she'd gone with."

Without opening his eyes, Spike reached for the bottle of Jack that was on the floor next to the bed. His fingers found it without fumbling and Oz correctly guessed that that movement had been repeated several times. Spike raised his head just enough to gulp a mouthful without choking. He put the bottle down and shook his head, groaning as the movement made the room spin.

"I went over. I saw him. Large as life and twice as ugly!" Spike giggled bitterly.

"Shit!" exclaimed Oz before he could stop it escaping his lips.

"Yeah! Shit."

Spike's hand reached out but met only air. He opened his eyes and rolled over to peer at the floor. He was puzzled for a moment before he looked at Oz, and saw that he was holding the bottle.

"Hey, that's mine. Get your own," he whined, holding his hand out for the bottle.

"No. I really think that you've had enough. More than enough," said Oz firmly.

Spike rarely drank more than a few beers. Oz smiled ruefully. He wouldn't want to be Spike's head in the morning.

Spike sat up and swung his feet to the floor. He stared up at Oz. "I don't think I can take this. I really don't."

The scary thing was that Oz agreed with him. He knew that Spike worshipped Buffy and had put her on a pedestal so high that she was never going to be able to live up to it. But Oz had never thought that the two of them weren't for keeps. He'd thought that Buffy felt, at least almost as deeply, for Spike as he did for her. Oz gazed at his friend and feared for him. But surely it would blow over - surely they'd get back together?

Oz sat on the bed beside Spike, carefully keeping the bottle of Jack out of his reach. He put his arm around Spike and was shocked when he clung to him and sobbed. The old English stiff upper lip had bypassed Spike. He wore his heart on his sleeve. That's what made him such a good songwriter – he bared his soul. Oz knew that Spike was destined for success and hoped that the meeting with the label next week would give Spike something to focus on.

Oz held Spike until he fell asleep and then laid him down, pulling the covers over him. "I hope to God that you work this out," he whispered as he walked out of the bedroom. He thought of calling Buffy, but a glance at his watch told him that it was way too late.

Spike woke up when the army of Genghis Khan began galloping through his head.

"Oh, shite."

A wave of nausea hit him and he staggered to the bathroom, making it just in time. He was splashing some cold water over his face after feeling like he'd just turned himself inside out, when the doorbell rang. He squinted at his watch. Nine thirty on a Sunday morning? Whoever it was ought to be shot! He walked unsteadily to the door and leaned a hand on the frame before opening it.

A good looking, well dressed man stood on the other side of it. Spike, even in his extremely hung over state, was suddenly all too aware of his crumpled, slept in clothes.

"William Pratt?" said the suit loudly.

Spike winced at both the volume and the use of his real name.

"Yeah."

"Got a letter for you."

The suit handed a large stiff envelope to Spike who took it dazedly.

"What is it?" Spike asked.

"I don't know. I'm just delivering it." The suit began to walk away.

"Wait! Who's it from?" said Spike, taking a step after him.

The suit turned. "I suggest that you open it and read it, sir. Then you'll have your answers." With a smug smile, the suit turned back around and walked away.

"Git," muttered Spike, walking back into the apartment.

He went and sat on the sofa before ripping the top from the envelope and taking out the single sheet of paper from inside it. He read it three times before the words made sense to him.

"The absolute bastard," Spike whispered.

The letter was from the Ferrari driving, girlfriend stealing, Liam O'Connor. He'd found out that Spike was actually perilously close to the permitted duration of the visa on his passport. Spike had mentioned it to the scout when they'd made the appointment, wanting to be upfront about it and had told him that his renewal application was being processed. The scout had assured Spike that the label would help out as much as they could to ensure that it was successful. But now, it seemed that Buffy's darling 'Angel' had a few friends in Immigration, and if Spike didn't get out of the county today, then Angel would press charges for the assault and see to it that Spike would be kicked out and never be allowed into the States again.

Spike crumpled up the letter and shoved it in his pocket. Without Buffy, what was the point of staying here anyway? He went to his bedroom, took out a holdall and stuffed some clothes into it. He made sure that he had his passport and wallet, and then paused only long enough to write a note to Oz and leave some money in lieu of notice for leaving the apartment, before calling a cab and going to LAX airport.

He was on a plane to London Heathrow within the hour. The first flight leaving after he arrived at the airport had a standby seat available. Spike was in the air before Oz even woke up.

"Spike! Fucking open the door!" yelled Oz, startling Spike as he pounded on the door again.

Oz rarely swore and so his cursing jolted Spike enough to open the door.

"Christ," said Oz as he laid eyes on his friend.

Spike smiled weakly. "Hi, Oz." He carefully made sure that he held the door close behind him so that Oz couldn't see inside the flat.

"I fly over from L.A. and all you say is 'hi'?" said Oz with a smile. He couldn't believe how awful Spike looked and felt terrible for not coming over sooner. "Are you going to at least offer to make me some coffee?"

Spike glanced quickly over his shoulder – the flat didn't look any better than it had two minutes before. "Um…I haven't got any milk. There's a Starbucks just on the corner." He stepped outside and began to pull the door shut but was stopped when Oz firmly placed a hand on the door and pushed it wide open. "Look, it's just…I mean…it's not…"

Oz walked inside and looked around the shabby and extremely untidy flat. "Oh, man!"

Spike opened his mouth to try to say something in his defence but another glance at the flat convinced him that there was no point. He ran his hand through his hair and grimaced. When had he last had it cut or even washed it? He felt ashamed.

"I've just got up. I…er…was just going to grab a shower," said Spike.

Oz shook his head and went to sit on the stool near the kitchen counter until he felt how wobbly it was. "God, Spike. Look at you! How can you live like this?" He gestured around the flat. "It stinks! When did you last take out the trash?"

"Um…I keep forgetting," mumbled Spike lamely.

"What? Like for the past month?"

"Look, it's not like I was expecting anyone to come round," said Spike defensively.

"I think that trip to Starbucks might not be a bad idea. You go and get your shower and I'll…er…I'll sit here," said Oz, hitching his ass onto the stool and just praying that it'd take his weight.

"Oh, okay," said Spike.

He stood for a moment before pulling himself together and going to the tiny bathroom. Once in the shower, Spike was torn between taking a long time and enjoying the feeling of getting clean, or having as quick a one as possible to get Oz out of the flat.

Ten minutes later and Spike re-emerged. He had a large towel wrapped around his waist. Oz stared at how thin Spike was. He had always been slim but now there wasn't an ounce of fat on him. Oz had never seen Spike's hair so long. It was curling as it dried and all but the ends of it were light brown – Spike's natural colour, obviously.

Spike glanced over his shoulder at Oz and smiled weakly. He opened his wardrobe and, to his relief, he quickly spotted a clean pair of jeans. He didn't have so much luck with a shirt. The only one that he could find was so crumpled that even he didn't think that he could wear it. Only one problem. He didn't have an iron – he'd left it turned on one day and it had burned a hole through the cover on the ironing board and gotten ruined. He had been lucky that it hadn't burnt the place down.

Spike turned to Oz. "Um…" He glanced at his shirt. _God, this is embarrassing. What's he doing here anyway?_ A large part of Spike wished that Oz would just piss off and leave him alone.

Oz bent down and opened the bag at his feet. Spike hadn't even noticed him carry it in. Oz took out a dark blue, button down long sleeved shirt and wordlessly handed it to Spike.

"I'm not wearing your sodding shirt," snapped Spike, mortified that Oz would have to offer him one. He turned back to the wardrobe. "I've got one in here…just need to do a bit of washing is all."

He began to rummage through the clothes that had fallen off hangers and were in a pile at the bottom of it. He jumped when Oz laid a hand on his shoulder and spun back around.

"Hey," said Oz, backing up a step and holding his hands out. "Didn't mean to startle you."

Spike felt his face colour up. _Could I seem any more like a bloody nutter?_ "It's all right. Just didn't expect it."

"Look, Spike. The shirt is yours, not mine," said Oz.

"What do you mean it's mine? I don't want your bleeding charity!"

Oz gritted his teeth. He felt like shaking his friend. "It's not charity, you dope. It's your shirt. You left it behind."

"Oh," said Spike weakly. "Sorry."

Oz turned and picked up the shirt. "Just put it on, okay? Then we can go to that coffee shop. I really think that we need to talk, Spike."

Spike took the shirt without meeting Oz's eye and put it on. He couldn't fail to notice that it was now too big for him. He found a pair of socks – well, two socks - and pushed his feet into his boots, quickly fastening the laces.

"Okay, let's go." He took the tenner and coins out of the pocket of the dirty jeans and finally looked at Oz.

Oz smiled at him and together they left the flat and walked to the nearest Starbucks. Spike insisted on paying for the coffees and tried not to wince at the cost of them. He was acutely aware that he had no income and lived on as little as possible to try to lessen the burden on his parents. When he had first returned to England, they had told him that they would support him until he was back on his feet. Their pride meant that they didn't want him to claim benefits from the state.

Oz noticed that Spike walked past several empty tables and opted for one in the corner at the back, sliding into the seat that faced the wall. Oz sat opposite and stared hard at Spike.

"What?" asked Spike, squirming under his scrutiny.

Oz shook his head slowly. "I just hardly recognise you, man."

Spike tried a smile and rubbed his left hand through his still damp hair. "Should get it cut, I suppose."

Oz took a sip of his coffee. He hadn't really believed Spike's parents when they said what a mess Spike was. He'd been in touch with them fairly regularly since Spike had fled the States. Once Spike's parents had an address for him, Oz had written many times but had never had a reply.

"I'm not talking about the hair, Spike," sighed Oz. "I'm talking about you."

Spike let his eyes drop to his hands. He wrapped them around the mug and twirled it around. This is why he hated seeing his folks – he couldn't bear to see how disappointed in him they were.

"'M okay," he muttered.

"Spike, you so are not!"

Spike began to rise from his chair. He didn't need this shit. He felt Oz's hand firmly grasp his elbow. "You're not running away again. You're gonna hear what I have to say," said Oz firmly. Spike tried to shrug his hand off. "I mean it, Spike. We've got to talk."

Spike glanced at Oz's face and quailed at the expression on it. Just like his parents. He flopped back down and sighed deeply. _Better let him get it off his chest._

"When was the last time that you ate a decent meal?"

"Huh?" Spike hadn't expected him to ask that.

"It's not a trick question."

"I know, I know," grumbled Spike, but for the life of him he couldn't remember. _Does toast constitute proper food?_

"Does the fact that you're having to think so hard not tell you something about yourself?" said Oz. "Jeez, buddy. I wish I'd come over sooner."

"Not like you could just drop everything and fly over, is it? You never can get time off without giving notice."

Spike tilted his head as Oz looked at him peculiarly. "What now?"

"Spike, you've been home almost four months. I only need to give a month's notice."

_Four months? Had it been that long? No, surely not. I mean, still being like this and thinking of her everyday after four months…Oh, shite – it's never going to get any better. _

Oz could tell by Spike's face that he hadn't a clue how long it had been. "Do you even know what day it is?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah, 'course I bleeding do!" snapped Spike. _Thursday? No, it's Friday – I'm sure that it's Friday._

Oz just stared at him with a 'sure you do' look on his face.

"Look, this is stupid. What difference does what day it is make? So what if it's sodding Friday?"

"Tuesday."

"What?" _Bollocks!_

Oz smiled. "It's Tuesday, Spike and it's your birthday."

"Oh," sighed Spike. "Okay, I'm a fucking mess. I admit it. But I can't help it, Oz. It's just too hard."

"You can't carry on like this. You've got to move on. Get on with your life. Your parents –"

"So is that why you've come?" interrupted Spike, rigid with anger. "My parents want you to kick their freeloading son's arse into gear? Fed up with forking out cash for me, are they?" His temper died as quickly as it had flared up. He put his head in his hands. "Can't blame them. They must be disgusted with me."

"What do you mean – freeloading?" asked Oz.

Spike looked up. "Well, I haven't had a job since I came back. Is it really four months? And they wouldn't let me sign on for welfare. Christ, they haven't got a lot of money, Oz. How could I do it to them? I'm a fucking waste of space." _No wonder Buffy didn't want me._

"Do you actually bother to open any of your mail?"

Spike's heart soared. Is that why Oz had come to see him? "Why, has Buffy written?"

"Er…I don't know," replied Oz, watching with dismay as the hope in Spike's eyes faded. "I haven't heard from her since a week after you left."

"You spoke to her? What did she say?" Spike leant forward, resting his elbows on the table.

"She just asked if I had your address, which I hadn't back then."

"So she wanted to get in touch?" Hope shone in Spike's eyes again.

"I won't kid you, buddy. When I told her you'd gone back to England, she said that it was probably for the best."

Probably. Part of Spike's mind leapt on it. Probably didn't mean definitely. There was still a chance, maybe. Then he realised that that was four months ago and tried to force himself to accept that although for him time had stood still, that no way would she have not moved on. He just stared back down at his cup and willed himself not to bleeding cry in front of Oz in a sodding Starbucks.

"Um…you said something about opening my post. If it wasn't because of…" He swallowed hard. "Why did you ask?"

"It's because you're not freeloading off your folks, Spike. You've got money coming in."

"I have? I don't get it – I mean – how?"

"Remember how you sold a few songs?" Spike nodded. "Well, one of them hit the number one spot about a month after you left. It was only there for a week but every time it's played on the radio, you get royalties. Some others have been getting airplay too. Your parents repeatedly tried to tell you but you just shut yourself off and in the end, they got in touch with me. I've sort of become your agent or manager. You've got money, Spike. You don't have to live like you are now."

Spike tried to get excited about the fact that his songs had done so well but he just couldn't. He knew which songs that he had sold and he knew that he'd written them about Buffy. He could hardly bear even to think of them.

"Remember how you had the meeting planned at the record label?" said Oz.

How could he forget? It was the same day that he'd lost Buffy. Spike nodded mutely.

"They've been in touch every month since you left. They even paid for my flight over here. They want to talk to you, Spike. They want your songs and they really want you to sing them." Oz sat back waiting for Spike's reaction. This is what Spike had dreamt of the whole time that he was in the States.

Spike rose sharply from his seat, the chair scraping on the floor as he did. He shook his head. "No," he whispered before bolting for the door.

"Spike!" yelled Oz, causing all the customers to stare. "Crap!"

He jumped up and ran after Spike. He was furious with his friend. Spike's family had let him have his own way these past few months but Oz was damned if he was going to let his friend waste his life for any longer. The time for pussy-footing about was over. Oz caught up with Spike about fifty yards away from Starbucks. He grabbed his arm and then ducked as Spike lashed out.

"Christ, Spike! Just listen to me for a goddamn minute!"

Oz wasn't very tall, but he was strong and given how skinny Spike currently was, he outweighed him, too. He grabbed Spike's other arm and shook him. "Stop running away, Spike!"

"I'm not running away," shouted Spike.

Oz raised his eyebrows.

"Okay, I am, but, you know? So sodding what?"

Oz gritted his teeth. "I swear to God, I'll punch you in a minute and I won't freaking miss like you did."

Spike shrugged off Oz's grip and scowled at him. "I just want to be left alone!" He turned and began to walk away.

Oz ran in front of him and almost did what he had promised, but instead of punching Spike, Oz planted his hands on his chest and pushed hard. Taken by surprise, Spike stumbled backwards, tripped over his feet and fell down, scattering shoppers as he did. The two men glared at each other for a moment before Oz held out his hand to Spike. After a second, Spike took it and let Oz help him to his feet. He rubbed his arse. _God, that bloody hurts._ He glanced at Oz and found that he was struggling not to laugh at him.

"'S not funny," muttered Spike, before starting to chuckle himself, and soon the two of them were laughing helplessly.

"Where's the nearest place to get a decent meal?" asked Oz as they regained control. "Your ass wouldn't be so sore if it had a bit more meat on it."

"Hey," protested Spike half-heartedly.

"And I meant what I said – that we need to talk. We need to get organised."

"Organised?"

"Yes, on Saturday you're flying back to L.A. with me."


	3. Chapter 3

Break Even

By Mabel Marsters

Chapter Three

Spike held onto the basin and stared at himself in the mirror. He still looked like shite. A bleach job and a haircut couldn't work miracles. The colourist had advised him against having it as white as it had been before and he'd just agreed with her in the hope that it would mean he wouldn't be there for too long. So now his hair was highlighted, white blond mixed in with his own sandy brown, but even that drew the colour from his pale face. He grimaced. His complexion was grey and his eyes looked dull.

"Oh, Christ. I can't do this," he muttered.

He pushed himself away from the basin and striding quickly out of the public toilets. Once outside of them, he turned the opposite way to where he should be headed, kept his head down and walked towards the exit.

"Spike!" A hand grabbed his shoulder. "Where are you going?"

Spike groaned and raised his eyes to Oz's face. "Not to L.A.," he said quietly but firmly. He began to walk once more.

Oz ran in front of him. "No way, man. You're getting on that plane with me."

Spike shook his head. "I can't, Oz." His expression was pained. "Please…just let me go. Tell the label they can buy all of the songs if you like. But tell them I'm finished."

He tried to sidestep around his friend but Oz was too quick. "So that's it?" snapped Oz, getting right in Spike's face. "Game over? You're twenty-four years old and you've given up? I never figured you for such a freaking coward."

"Oz…please." It was little more than a whisper.

"No," replied Oz. "Come to L.A. Tell them yourself about your songs and not wanting a contract with them if you like, but come and stay with me for a few weeks. You can't carry on like this, man, you really can't."

Spike shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, his eyes glancing at the doors. If he just ran out there, he could be back in his studio apartment within the hour. But then what? Oz was right. He couldn't keep on like he had, but the alternative was almost too hard to face. He'd have to accept that Buffy was gone for good. Could he do that? Could he move on?

"Spike?" Oz put a hand gently on Spike's arm. "They're calling the flight. We've got to go." He let his hand fall away and stepped back from Spike. His friend had to make this decision on his own. He couldn't force him to come, even if it was the best thing for him.

With a last lingering look at the doors, Spike took a deep breath and met Oz's eye. "Okay," he mumbled. "But I'll sort out selling my songs and then I'll come back." He couldn't bring himself to call his dingy apartment 'home'.

"Okay," said Oz, resisting the urge to whoop at the fact that Spike was going to get on the plane. "We'd better go to the boarding gate."

The two of them jogged to where their aircraft was waiting. Spike raised his eyebrows when they were guided into business class section. Oz grinned. "They're paying, not me. Cool, huh?"

Spike smiled weakly as he settled himself in his spacious seat. It was a lot more comfortable than when he'd flown before.

Halfway into the flight and Spike was asleep, curled up on his side in the reclined chair, looking like a child. Oz watched him as he moved restlessly. He could imagine what he was dreaming of. Or rather who he was dreaming of. Oz wondered idly whether he'd be able to get Spike to agree to go for a session of therapy. God knows his friend was in desperate need of it.

As the aircraft began its descent into LAX Spike's stomach began to churn. He wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans and wondered what the bleeding hell he was doing there. Just being with Oz reminded him of Buffy – of all the times they'd hung out at the apartment. Hell, who was he kidding? He didn't need Oz to remind him of Buffy. He couldn't get her out of his mind. It wasn't normal, was it? To still feel like this after so long?

The attendant walked by, checking that seats were upright and seatbelts were fastened. She'd flirted with Spike to no avail. He hadn't even noticed her. "Are you all right, sir?" she asked, pausing at his side.

"Huh?" He blinked and looked up at her vaguely.

"I asked if you were all right," she repeated. "You look a little unwell."

"No, I'm okay," he said unconvincingly. He was worried that he'd throw up. He tried a smile. "Just not the best flyer, that's all. Thanks." Then he went back to staring at his knees and trying to control his breathing.

She shrugged slightly and walked on to take her seat prior to landing.

Oz and Spike were the last in their section to get off. Spike had seemed rooted to his seat until Oz gave him a hard nudge.

"If we stay here any longer, we'll be going back to London," he said.

_And that would be bad because… _ Spike pulled himself together and got up, grabbing his bag from the overhead locker and passing Oz his.

Spike paused as he stepped out of the airport and into the bright California sun. It seemed like a different world. He tried to remember how excited he'd been when he'd arrived here the first time around, hoping to make it with his music. Now here he was, about to turn down the very recording contract that he'd dreamed about for so long.

"It's for the best," he muttered as he walked to a waiting cab with Oz.

"What?" asked Oz. "I missed that."

He shook his head. "Nothing."

Spike was silent for the duration of the journey. He was glad that Oz had moved into a different apartment. There was no way that he could have faced sleeping in the bedroom that he'd shared with Buffy.

He followed Oz into the apartment and his jaw dropped.

"Wow! This is amazing," he said, staring wide-eyed around the spacious living room. He flushed thinking of the studio apartment that Oz had seen. "How long have you been here?"

Oz put his bag down and threw his keys in a bowl on a table near the door. "A couple of months." He grinned. "Awesome, huh?"

"Did you win the lottery or something?"

"Nope. Got headhunted. A rival firm made me an offer I couldn't refuse and one of the things they tempted me with was this place at a rental price less than the old one. Here – I'll give you the tour."

Spike followed Oz around the apartment feeling more like a pathetic wanker the more he saw of the place. It was huge. And clean. Really, really, clean and tidy. He closed his eyes at the image of Oz perched on the wonky stool next to the overflowing trash can.

"This is your room," said Oz, showing him the larger of the two guestrooms. It was bigger than the whole of Spike's apartment.

"Um…thanks. It's great."

"That door there leads to your own bathroom."

Spike looked at it and nodded. "Great. Um…I think I'll take a shower then, if that's okay?"

Oz gave him a friendly shove. "You don't need to ask. Just treat it like your home…well…maybe keep it a bit neater, eh?" He laughed at Spike's discomfort. "Just chill out a bit. You're in sunny California now – relax!"

"Thanks, Oz," said Spike, looking meaningfully at his friend.

Oz nodded, acknowledging what Spike was thanking him for. "We'll order some food when you come out. Don't know about you but I'm starving."

~*~*~*~

After spending Sunday with Oz, Spike was now alone. Oz had left for work and he was due at the record label's offices to discuss the deal that they were offering in a couple of hours' time. Spike had wandered restlessly about the apartment before snatching up his jacket and going down to the street.

He walked slowly, not really taking much notice of where he was going, and so it was with surprise that he found himself standing on the corner where he used to meet Buffy. He closed his eyes and groaned.

"Oh, Spike," he muttered, clenching his fists so tightly that his fingernails dug into his skin.

A glance at his watch told him that still had an hour to kill. The office was only a few blocks away and so he decided he may as well get a coffee to pass the time. He ordered and took his drink to a table in the window of the café. Sipping his coffee absently, he watched the people walking by. He took his wallet out of his pocket, flipped it open and stared at the photograph in there. His heart clenched. Each time he looked at it he was struck anew by her beauty. Why had she ever bothered with him at all? Stifling a moan, Spike rammed it back in his pocket. It was time to go and sell his songs.

He hesitated as his hand touched the door handle. It would be so much easier just to call them but he sighed and walked into the large bright foyer. Spike glanced around, spotted the reception desk and made his way to it.

"Good morning, sir," said the pretty brunette receptionist. "How may I help you?"

"Um…I've got an appointment to see…" He ran a hand through his hair. _Shit! What was the name?_ Spike felt his face heat up. "Erm…I'm sorry, I've forgotten his name."

The brunette's smile didn't dim. "Can you remember your name, sir?" she asked with a theatrical wink.

Spike couldn't help but smile back. "Yeah. I can remember that. It's Spike." A thought struck him as she inputted his name into the computer. "It might be under…William…William Pratt." He had no idea what name Oz given.

The receptionist giggled. "So you're not sure of your name after all?"

"I guess not," replied Spike ruefully.

"Ah! There you are. It's under Spike…"

"Thank God for that," muttered Spike.

"And it's with Mr. Bullen. His office is on the eighth floor and is the second right. I'll let his secretary know that you're on your way up."

"Thanks."

Spike went to the elevators and pushed the button. The doors opened almost immediately and he walked inside, grimacing at the fact its walls consisted of full length mirrors.

_All I bloody need. _He scowled at his reflection. By the time the lift stopped and the doors pinged open, Spike was feeling as bad as he looked. _Good job I'm here to flog the bloody songs and not to try for a contract. I'd scare them off, for sure. _He ran a hand over his chin. At least he had managed to bother to shave that morning. _Maybe I should have dressed up a bit? _But hey, his jeans were clean and his t-shirt was a vintage Clash one.

A prim looking woman eyed him suspiciously as he approached. He opened his mouth to speak…

"Spike, I presume?" She managed to sneer yet be polite at the same time. Spike decided it was a hell of a thing to be able to do.

"That's right." He found that he couldn't hold her stare and so dropped his gaze to his extremely unpolished boots. _Shite._

"Please take a seat. Mr. Bullen will see you shortly."

Spike sat obediently in the chair she indicated. He found his heart was pounding with the same dread that it had when he was a kid and sent to the headmaster's office for being in trouble at school.

He started when the polished mahogany door was opened and an immaculately attired man walked towards him with his hand outstretched.

"Spike," he said warmly. "I'm Greg Bullen. I can't say how delighted I am that you have decided to come back to L.A." He shook Spike's hand. "Come into my office." He glanced at his secretary. "Margaret, can you bring some refreshments in, please?" Greg looked at Spike. "What would you like? Coffee? Tea?"

"Um…coffee's fine, thanks," said Spike, following the man inside.

The room was lavishly furnished and huge. It exuded success and intimidated Spike even more than its occupant did.

Greg waved a hand to a large leather chair opposite the glass and walnut desk. "Please take a seat."

Spike sank into its softly upholstered surface and tried not to gawk at the surroundings. He knew the label was one of the major players in the industry but this was wealth on a ridiculously over the top scale.

Greg made small talk, pulling monosyllabic answers from Spike with the practiced ease of an expert negotiator. He waited until Margaret had brought the drinks and left again before he leaned forwards in his chair and rested his elbows on the desk.

"So, Spike. We'd like to get you into the recording studio as soon as possible. You have almost enough songs for an album and I'd like to have it out by Christmas. That gives us six months – it's tight but not impossible."

"Um…look, Mr. Bullen—"

"Greg."

Spike smiled lopsidedly. "Greg, I haven't come here to record the songs. I-I've come to sell them to you." He looked towards the window. "That's if you still want them? If not, I'll stop wasting your time." He stood up and backed up a couple of steps. "You're a busy man and well…" Spike knew that he was babbling but he couldn't stop. "You don't need—"

"Spike," said Greg, a touch sharply.

Spike reluctantly looked at him.

"Sit down, please. You're not wasting my time. I have plenty of time for you, whatever the outcome of this meeting." He stood up and walked around the desk.

Spike hesitated.

"Please," said Greg, indicating a couple of chairs near the window. "We'll sit there and have a talk, shall we?"

Spike shrugged. "Okay," he said quietly.

Greg waited until they were both settled before talking. "Mr. Osborne told me of your loss, and you have my heartfelt sympathies."

Spike suddenly found his feet very interesting. _How pathetic am I that Oz had to lie about why I'm in this state? _ "Don't want to talk about it," he managed to mumble.

"Of course not," replied Greg smoothly. "But do you not think that the most fitting tribute would be to release an album of the songs that you so lovingly wrote?"

Spike had to hand it to the fella, he was good, but he shook his head all the same. "There's no point." He raised a hand to quiet Greg's protest. "When I dreamed of getting my stuff released I never planned on just one album."

This time Greg did butt in. "We want to sign you for three."

Glancing at him, Spike gave a small sigh. "And therein lies the problem."

"I'm sorry?" Greg's brows furrowed as he leaned forward in his seat.

"I can't write anymore," whispered Spike, blushing as his voice broke slightly.

Greg sat back in his chair. "You need more time – you've got it."

Spike ran a hand wearily over his face. "I just don't know whether there'll ever be enough time." He turned to stare out of the window once more. "I've tried. I've picked up my guitar a couple of times but…nothing. It's gone." He turned to Greg, his expression tortured, pain showing clearly in his eyes. "Whatever I had – it's left me. I can't sign up and then not produce new songs – what would be the point of that?"

"So your main worry is that you won't give us new material?" asked Greg.

Spike looked at him sideways. "Yeah."

"Right, so here's the deal. We'll pay you a wage – a retainer as it were – until you write some new songs or the year's out. If you feel the same after that then we'll buy current songs and find a different singer to record them. How does that sound?"

"Seems a bit odd that you'll pay me when I've just told you I can't write. Why not just buy the songs now?"

"Because, what I really want is the songs _**and you**_, and I'm prepared to risk a few thousand dollars in the hope that I'll get it." Greg grinned and added. "Plus, I'll drive a really hard bargain for the songs if you decide to walk away." He held out his hand. "Do we have a deal?"

"Um…what about the Christmas release?"

"Look, Spike. If we get you signed up I don't care when we get your album out. So? Deal?"

Spike hesitated before stretching out his and saying quietly, "Deal."

"Excellent!" Greg pumped his hand up and down with delight.

Spike's stomach churned. _Stop stressing_, he told himself firmly. _Can still sell the sodding songs._

Greg went over some paperwork before Spike left but he hadn't really taken it in apart from when his eyes had widened at the figure they were going to pay him per month for essentially doing nothing. He left the office in a daze.

*~*~*~*

Spike's life now had a new routine. He no longer laid listlessly in bed in a dingy studio apartment in London. He got up and sat listlessly on the balcony of a plush L.A. apartment instead. The end result was that he was beginning to lose the pasty, ill appearance that had shocked Oz when he'd first seen him.

One morning, he sighed as he glanced at his still un-played guitar. He couldn't stand being in the same room with it for any longer. It was a stark reminder of how he hadn't only lost his soul mate but had lost the other love of his life – his music. Spike got up and went down to the street. He wandered along and ended up, inevitably it seemed, at the corner where he used to meet Buffy.

He leant against the wall and watched the people walking by. He wondered idly where they were all dashing to. Everyone seemed to be in a hurry except him. He felt like his life was moving in slow-motion and he had no idea how to make it get up to normal speed again. A couple of coins dropped at his feet and, startled, he looked up.

"There you go, buddy. Get yourself a hot drink and something to eat."

"What?" asked Spike, when the well-dressed man spoke.

The business suited man inclined his head to the coins on the floor. "Help yourself to something to eat – you look like you need it."

Spike blushed scarlet. "But I'm not—"

"Just take it, man. We've all had bad times."

Spike stared after him as he strode away, then he glanced down at himself. The faded Levis with ripped out knees. The scuffed boots. The old t-shirt.

_Oh shite! He thought I was begging! _He bent down and picked up the coins. _I'm not broke – I'm just broken hearted._ Sighing deeply, he crossed the street to the café. _Better use it for what it was intended._

He bought a newspaper from a nearby stand and walked inside the café. The smell of coffee was inviting and he bought a latte and a chocolate covered donut before taking a seat in the window. He flicked through the paper but found his attention wandered back to people watching instead. When Spike became aware that the place was filling up and he was getting a few dirty looks for nursing such a small order for so long, he ordered another coffee and a sandwich.

When he pulled out his wallet to pay for them his heart skipped at the sight of Buffy's face smiling up at him. He couldn't take his eyes away from it for what seemed like an age. Finally, with a grimace, he put his wallet back in his pocket and walked out of the café, leaving the newspaper on the table along with the half drunk coffee and untouched sandwich. He wandered back to the apartment.

Oz kept trying to get Spike to go out and socialise but had never managed it. He felt bad leaving his friend behind when he went out in the evening, but he couldn't just stay in all the time with Spike. He wished whole-heartedly that Spike would shake off the depression that was blighting his life but shuddered when he recalled the time he'd tried to give Spike the number of a good therapist. What was it with English people and their aversion to therapy?

When Spike told him that he'd been out that morning, Oz was delighted. Did this mean that things were going to get better for him?

*~*~*~*

A month later and Spike's routine had changed. He got up a little earlier. Dressed a little tidier. And went to the café for a little longer. The staff knew him by now and as soon as he walked in the door his coffee and donut was ready for him. He sat at the same table, pretending to read the paper but really mostly staring out of the window, scanning the passing people for the one face that he longed to see again – Buffy. He knew that it was stupid. She no longer lived in L.A. and despite both his and Oz's best efforts, he had no clue as to where she'd gone.

He had no idea that for the past two weeks that he'd been watched as carefully as he'd watched the crowds outside.

A chair scraped on the floor and he glanced up to see a tall brunette was pulling out the chair next to his.

"Do you mind if I sit here?" she asked with a hundred watt smile.

Spike glanced around the café. It was still half empty with several vacant tables. "Um, sorry, but I'd rather you didn't. There are other chairs that are free," he replied bluntly.

"I like this one," she said brightly, ignoring Spike's request and sitting next to him.

He groaned softly and shifted further away from her, before beginning to rise. She put a hand on his arm.

"Please don't leave."

"Look. I just want to be alone, all right? 'M not looking for any conversation."

"Are you looking for her?" The woman held out his wallet, that had been on the table, opened revealing Buffy's photograph.

Spike snatched it from the woman's hand. "None of your bleeding business, lady," he hissed.

He shrugged off her hand and stood up. She did also. "I'm sorry. I'll go. I didn't mean to upset you." The brunette turned and quickly walked out of the café.

Spike sat down slowly and put his head in his hands. _Sod it._ He knew he'd been rude but he hadn't been able to prevent it. Like he'd said – it was none of her business.

*~*~*~*

Cordelia Chase strolled slowly along the street. Her thoughts were with the blond man in the café. Without fail, he'd been there each day for at least the last three weeks. That was when she'd first spotted him, sitting alone in the window, toying with the pastries that he bought but rarely ate. The sorrow around him was tangible. The only time before today that she'd heard him speak, was when he was paying for his order and politely thanking the staff.

It was his voice that had made her notice him initially. The accent stood out against the others in there, but it was the inflection in it that had made her prick up her ears. He sounded so sad; his voice a weary monotone. When she'd glanced up from her laptop she'd been expecting to see a much older man than the twenty something that was making his way to a table in the window.

She'd been surprised to see him still there when she'd finished emailing her copy to the magazine. As far as she could see, he hadn't touched his drink, his donut or even turned the pages of his newspaper. He appeared to be alternately staring at something in his hands and out the window. Occasionally he tensed and then seemed to slump in his seat.

The sigh that he gave when he'd finally gotten up from his seat and walked out of the café tugged at her heartstrings and made her certain that there was a story in there somewhere. Why was a handsome guy like that so alone and so obviously miserable? She resolved to find out and just hoped that she hadn't screwed everything up today. She was desperate to hear what he had to say.


	4. Chapter 4

Break Even

By Mabel Marsters

Chapter Four

Spike tucked his newspaper under his arm as he picked up his coffee and donut. He walked to the front of the café and stopped short. There was someone sitting at what he considered his table. He put his purchases down on the table next to it and slid into a chair.

"I'm sorry about yesterday," a warm voice said softly.

He turned and groaned quietly when he saw the brunette from the day before.

"I should apologise to you," he replied. "But I would really like to be left to read my paper in peace, okay?"

Cordelia got up and sat opposite him, with her back to the window. She held out her hand. "My name's Cordelia."

Spike stared at her hand, noticing the long scarlet manicured fingernails, before briefly shaking it.

"Spike," he said.

"Spike?" Cordelia repeated with a giggle. "Didn't your parents like you?"

Spike smiled back at her; it was impossible not to. "It's a nickname."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, I would never have guessed! Spike, please note the colour of my hair – I'm not a dumb blonde."

"Okay. Not dumb. Check."

Encouraged by his smile, Cordelia risked asking a few questions. "So, what brings you to L.A.? Your accent is British, isn't it?"

"English," corrected Spike gently. "There isn't such a thing as a British accent, just Welsh, English, Scottish and Northern Irish. You can call me a Brit but my accent's English." He smiled ruefully. "Sorry, lecture over."

"Forgiven," said Cordelia. "I have a friend who is from New Zealand and she hates it if she gets referred to as Australian; similar thing I guess."

"Suppose." Spike began to crumble his donut up.

"So?" prompted Cordelia, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Huh?"

"What brings you to these shores? The love of a good woman?"

Spike's expression closed down immediately and a tick worked in his jaw. Cordelia apologised quickly, knowing that she'd hit the nail on the head. The key to this man was the photograph in his wallet.

"I'm sorry. Please forget I said that."

Spike forced himself to relax. "'S okay," he mumbled.

"Please tell me you're not an actor," said Cordelia.

"And what's wrong with being an actor?" He glared at her.

"Er…nothing," Cordelia said sheepishly.

"I'll have you know that I was very good when I played Joseph," declared Spike.

For the first time, Cordelia detected a little gleam in Spike's eyes, and realised that he was teasing her. She decided to play along.

"What was that in? A stage production or a film?"

"On the stage. I tread the boards, my dear," said Spike, affecting an upper class accent. "Mrs. Hickinbottom said I was a natural."

"You've made that name up," protested Cordelia.

Spike shook his head. "I haven't the imagination to make it up."

"Okay, I'll bite," said Cordelia. "Who is Mrs. Hickinbottom?"

"My primary school teacher. I was six."

Cordelia laughed and Spike surprised himself by joining in.

They chatted about anything and everything for a while before Cordelia tried again.

"You never did tell me why you're over here?"

"I came like thousands before me have, to try to make it in the music business. I have a friend over here that got me a job in the office where he worked so that I could come over and stay for a while."

"Wow," said Cordelia. "So should I have heard of you?"

"Nah. Never got signed up. Sold a few songs though." Spike named the two that had been hits whilst he was back in the U.K.

Cordelia nodded. "I'm impressed. One got to number one didn't it?"

"Yeah. For about a minute," replied Spike dismissively. Unconsciously, he pulled his wallet out of his pocket and flipped it open.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Cordelia asked, her voice not much more than a whisper. "I'm a good listener."

Spike glanced up at her – at this stranger – and suddenly found himself talking properly about what had happened for the first time.

Cordelia was true to her word and listened intently without comment as Spike bared his soul to her.

"So, how pathetic does that make me?" asked Spike, a touch bitterly. "Sitting here hoping that a girl I used to go out with might just happen to walk by? Shit! I know she's not even in the bloody city."

Cordelia smiled kindly.

Spike covered his face with his hands and groaned. "Christ, I can't believe that I've told you all that. I haven't even told my best mate most of it."

Cordelia's heart was racing. She'd gotten her story all right. She wouldn't betray his confidence but it was just too great a story to ignore.

"I'm cheaper than the shrink your friend suggested," she replied wryly. Halfway through his tale, Spike had bought her a cappuccino and a slice of cake.

"God, I'm sorry." Spike flushed with embarrassment. "Look, it's been nice talking to you, Cordelia, but I really better be going." He rose quickly from his seat and within seconds had disappeared outside.

Cordelia grinned as she pulled out her cell. "Faith, hi. Would you be interested in a human interest story? A guy who spends half the day in a café hoping that his ex might turn up there one day because it's opposite the corner where they used to meet when they were dating."

She laughed at Faith's reply. "No. It's not as sappy as it sounds. This guy…he got to me…he's something else. But it'll have to be with changed names. There's no way he'd give permission to tell his story. Leave it to me – the only people who know who it refers to will be those who know him well. You never know – she might read it and we could get the reunion story too."

She thanked the editor of the magazine where she worked and then hung up. She pulled her laptop out of its case near to her feet, and began to type.

*~*~*~*

Spike was relieved not to see Cordelia in the café the next day. He'd barely slept due to worrying about opening up to her. He hadn't told Oz. He'd been too embarrassed by it. He didn't stay quite so long at the café that day, unable to settle in his seat, so he ended up wandering the streets for hours instead. It was times like this that he wished that he could still song write. He used to get his guitar out if he was feeling restless and lose himself, but now playing just left him cold. It transported him to places that he no longer wanted to go.

*~*~*~*

Buffy Summers was bored. She'd channel hopped just about every channel on the TV in the vain hope of finding something that could hold her interest. Groaning with frustration, she threw the remote control across the room and got up. Time for some ice-cream.

"Typical," she moaned when she'd checked the freezer. Colin must have finished the last of the ice-cream off without telling her. "Grrr!"

She grabbed her jacket and purse and left in search of icy goodness at the local store. She missed Colin when he was out of town. Luckily it wasn't that often but being the head of the surgical department at Sunnydale Hospital meant that he did have to go to the occasional seminar and conference.

When she'd first started dating him, she'd travelled with him but soon found that sitting in a hotel room watching bad TV was just as boring as staying at home. So now she didn't bother to go anymore.

She smiled as she pulled her car into the parking lot outside the store. Her life was pretty much perfect these days. Colin was a good man and his job and prospects meant that her mother loved him almost as much as she did. If it wasn't as passionate as her previous relationship had been – her smile faded – then that wasn't such a bad thing, was it? He'd never let her down.

Colin was safe, reliable and cared deeply for her without making her feel smothered. She glanced at the ring finger on her left hand. The diamond and emerald ring glistened in the sun. They were due to be married in eight month's time.

Buffy selected two of flavours of ice-cream and also bought a couple of magazines to read since nothing had looked worth watching on TV. Putting one tub in the freezer, she got a spoon out of a drawer and took Cookie Dough flavour and the magazines into the living room of the house that she shared with Colin.

An article titled 'The Man Who Can't Be Moved' grabbed her attention and soon the ice-cream was forgotten as she poured over the words written by Cordelia Chase.

"Oh, my God!"

She couldn't believe it. No – it couldn't be… She read it again and then again. There was no mistake. The man in the article was Spike.

"Spike!"

Her eyes misted over as she recalled the end of their relationship. The fight with Angel. How she'd felt so guilty to have kissed him when it had meant nothing to her. She'd aimed for his cheek, he'd turned and it had fallen on his lips and then instead of pushing him away, she'd kissed him back! Why had she done that? She shook her head sadly. She'd been flattered. A hot shot lawyer plying her with compliments that had gone to her head. Then Spike had made her so angry when he'd referred to her as if she were a possession like Angel's stupid over the top sports car. Her anger fuelled by her guilt at the kiss.

Spike…his love for her was so strong that at times it had frightened her a little. He'd been her first 'proper' boyfriend and had been so sure that they'd be together forever. Then one stupid argument and he'd left her. No explanations or anything. Just upped and left for England. Only now, if this article was true, he hadn't gone of his own accord. He'd thought that she'd been out with Angel the day after the reunion when she'd really been crying on Willow's shoulder.

That same guilt made her not contact him, not try to fight his decision to end it. She felt that she wasn't worthy of his love, knowing that she'd hurt him so badly. When she'd finally plucked up courage to talk to him – to ask for his forgiveness, Oz had told her that he'd left the country. She couldn't believe that Angel would have threatened him like the article claimed – no strike that – it was _**exactly**_ the sort of thing that Angel would do.

She managed a little smile at the pseudonym used for Angel – Gabriel. Mind you, she wasn't so sure that she liked being called Joan.

Her heart ached for Spike when she read how he could no longer write. Although the article had only said that he'd found it impossible to continue in the pursuit of his dream career. She had to hand it to this reporter. Buffy didn't think that even her mother or sister would realise who it was really about.

After a sleepless night, Buffy got in her car and headed for L.A. before dawn had even broken. Colin was away for another two days and she had to see Spike.

*~*~*~*

Spike had been puzzled when one of the waitresses at the café had given him a copy of a women's magazine as he'd left. Puzzled that was until he flicked through it when he got home.

"The bloody bitch!" he roared flinging the magazine across the room.

It hit Oz on the legs as he walked in. "What's wrong?" he asked, picking it up and peering at the title. "Never thought you'd be reading this."

"Take a look at page seven," growled Spike.

Curious, Oz sat in an armchair, found the article and read it, all the time aware of Spike watching him. When he'd read it, he closed the magazine, put in down and looked at Spike. "Oh."

"Is that it? Oh?"

Oz shrugged. "It's a true account. You never told me that you'd told your story to a journalist."

"I bleeding didn't!" roared Spike, standing up and pacing up and down the room.

"So what? This…" Oz flipped back to see the author's by-line. "Cordelia Chase just made it up and it by some miracle completely matches the last year of your life?"

Spike sighed and flopped back on the couch. "No. I did talk to her, only I didn't know she was a reporter. We just got talking and well…I couldn't stop - once I got started it sort of all came out."

"So that's where you go every morning?" asked Oz. "'Cause that is a bit odd."

Spike shook his head and groaned loudly. "I know. I know. I'm fucked up, Oz. I can't bleeding help it. I can't get her out of my mind. She's there all the sodding time, and now everybody knows what a total wanker I really am."

"Calm down. It's not so bad. No one will know it's you."

Spike looked at him incredulously, "Are you daft? It's bleeding obvious that it's me. You knew straightaway. Shit!"

Oz moved to sit next to Spike on the couch. "No one who doesn't know the story already will think that it's you. The names and even descriptions have been changed. I mean she describes Angel as blond and hell, she says that you're handsome."

"Hey!" protested Spike. "That bit is true."

"So it's not a disaster, is it?" said Oz trying a smile.

"Are you sure that it doesn't sound like me?"

"Positive."

"'M never going back to that café," stated Spike firmly. "The bloody waitress gave me the mag."

"Well maybe it means that you're going to be able to move on if you stop going there," said Oz carefully, knowing that the words 'move on' were often like a red rag to a bull to Spike.

"Maybe," replied Spike quietly.

*~*~*~*

The next morning Spike found himself automatically making his way to the café as usual. He ignored the sideways glance from the waitress who'd given him the magazine and put the correct money on the counter before picking up his order and walking to 'his' table. There was an envelope on it addressed simply to 'Spike'. He looked back at the waitress but she was busy serving another customer. He sat down and opened the envelope.

It contained a single sheet of paper.

_**Spike,**_

_**I hope you can forgive me for using your story for the magazine article. I am donating my fee for this to charity. It just moved me so much I couldn't leave it untold. I disguised everyone as much as possible and I sincerely hope that it causes you no embarrassment.**_

_**My number if you want to get in touch – even if just to yell at me –is **__**555 253 6423**_

_**Yours truly,**_

_**Cordelia Chase**_

Spike folded the paper up and put it in the pocket of his jeans. _I'll be more careful who I talk to in future._ He couldn't really blame a reporter from writing it up. He stared into his coffee mug lost in his thoughts.

Buffy walked along the street to the café. Although it hadn't been named she'd known exactly where it was. Opposite where they'd literally first bumped into each other.

Now that she was actually in L.A. she was feeling kind of dumb at racing out here. She should have contacted the reporter. Had her give Spike her number. That would have been more sensible, but her heart was pounding as the café came into view.

She could see someone sitting in the window with his head down. For a moment, she didn't realise that it was Spike, as she'd been expecting the platinum blond hair, but when he briefly raised his head and ran his hand over his face there was no mistaking who it was.

She stopped and the woman behind her cursed as she walked into the back of her, but Buffy took no notice. There he was. After all this time. Courage failing, she turned away, only to turn back and cross the street. A car's horn sounded loudly as the driver swerved to avoid her.

Buffy held a hand up in apology and jogged to the sidewalk just a couple of doors down from the café. She walked the rest of the way and took a deep breath as she put her hand on the door. Before she had time to change her mind again she pushed it open and walked inside. She paused when she was a few yards away from Spike. He was staring out the window, his left hand absently turning his donut into a pile of sticky crumbs. She bit her lip. Had his cheekbones always been so sharply defined?

On legs that felt like they were in danger of not being able to hold her upright, she closed the distance between them. She opened her mouth but nothing came out apart from a very quiet squeak. Clearing her throat, she tried again.

"Spike."

The word was quietly spoken but its effect was dramatic. Spike stood up and whirled around so quickly that his chair fell over with a clatter and his coffee spilled all over the table.

He stared at her with such disbelief and delight that she wondered if she'd been right to come here after all.

"Buffy." The word was a strangled sob.

They both bent to retrieve the upturned chair and bumped heads.

"Ow!" yelled Buffy, rubbing her forehead.

"Oh, God, I'm sorry. Are you okay?"

Spike's blue eyes had never looked so intense as he watched her stand up and walk to the opposite side of the table to where he'd been sitting. Spike picked up the chair and they had just sat down when a waitress came to wipe up the spillage. Neither spoke until she moved away again.

Spike stared at her. He had to make a conscious effort to keep breathing. She was here. She'd come to find him. She was here!

Dropping her eyes from Spike's face, Buffy finally broke the silence. "You've lost weight."

"Yeah," replied Spike after a pause. "You too." He smiled tentatively at her.

"Thanks. Actually, I should thank that reporter," said Buffy. "I was just about to pig out on ice-cream when I read the article."

_Ice-cream? She eats that when she's sad. _Spike allowed his heart to have a flicker of hope. "What flavour?" _What sodding flavour! Get a grip Spike. Stop sounding so fucking dumb._

"Cookie Dough."

"Oh." He cleared his throat. He'd dreamed of this moment for so long, but now had no idea what to say. "I'm sorry about that night. I was a jerk."

Buffy smiled at him and nodded. "You were." _And so was I._

Spike looked down and when he met her eye again, his were moist with tears. "God, Buffy. I-I've really m-missed you."

He bit his lip, furious that he was almost weeping. He reached his hand out to touch hers. Noticing for the first time that Buffy was wearing a ring, he drew his hand away from hers.

"Is that…is it…" He couldn't say it.

Buffy silently cursed herself for not taking it off. "It's not Angel's. I never went out with him."

Spike realised that it didn't make any difference to the pain he felt in his chest. She was wearing a ring that wasn't his. He swallowed hard.

"So whose is it?" His voice a monotone.

A hint of rose coloured Buffy's cheeks. "He's called Colin. He's a good man, Spike."

"Why did you come?"

His eyes were so filled with emotion that she couldn't hold his gaze. Time had dimmed her memory of just how much Spike had actually loved her. She thought of Colin. He'd never look at her with such longing. But Spike had always acted like she was so perfect and she'd found that scary at the time and realised that she still did. How could she possibly live up to the image that Spike had of her? She touched the ring. Seeing Spike again had taken her breath away but she knew that she was with the right man. Passion would fade in time. Spike would end up disappointed in her. It was never meant to last. It was too intense to survive. Was it love or was it really obsession?

"I just wanted to see you. To talk to you." She reached out and wrapped her fingers around the hand that he'd withdrawn. "I thought that it would be good for us to have the chance to say sorry for that night. We both said hurtful things." _And if that article is right then you're falling to pieces and I never wanted that. I can't stay because if it didn't work out it would hurt you even more than me leaving. I couldn't bear it. _

Spike curled his fingers around hers. "Don't marry him," he said, leaning towards her. "We're meant to be together – you know we are."

She shook her head sadly. "We're not, Spike. It was lovely, but I'm not the perfect creature that you seem to think I am."

"I don't think you're perfect," he said earnestly. "Well…actually I do but that's not the point. The point is…the point is…there'll never be anybody for me but you."

She tried to take her hand away but he held it tight. "Please, Buffy. I'm no good without you. You're the best part of me."

She tugged her hand away. "It's too much," she whispered. "You're too intense, Spike. It smothered me then and I couldn't live like that. I'm not a part of you. We're individuals, not melded together for eternity."

"Marry me. I love you. No one could love you more." He stared into her eyes.

Buffy slowly rose from her chair, tears streaked her face. "I love you, Spike. I guess I always will. We had some great times together, but I'm _**in love**_ with Colin. He makes me feel safe.

"Safe?" croaked Spike, feeling his life ebbing away from him once more. "You'll settle for safe?" He stood up.

"It's not a bad thing to want. I want stability. That was never something that you could offer me."

He gasped. So he'd never been enough for her? He really had been wrong about her all this time?

"I'm sorry, Spike. I know it's not what you want to hear, but you need to move on. I'm happy. Can't you be happy for me?"

_No! _He couldn't speak.

She walked round the table, stood on tiptoe and kissed Spike's cheek, her lips barely touching his skin, and then she walked away. He stared after her, his fingertips stroking the place that she'd kissed. Where his life had stood still with him locked in his longing for her, she'd moved on. Found someone who would care for her. She slept soundly beside him in bed. He thought of his own sleep deprived nights and took the kiss for what it was – a dismissal.

When one heart broke, it didn't mean it was the same for the other one. It wasn't an even break. His heart was forever Buffy's, but hers had healed and had been given to someone else.

He bolted from the café, blinded by the tears he refused to allow to fall. If he'd looked to the left as he turned right, he would have seen Buffy leaning against a wall, sobbing uncontrollably.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Buffy closed her eyes tightly and willed the tears to stop. She had never thought that it would hurt so much to see Spike again. With a shuddering breath her sobs finally ceased. She wiped her eyes knowing that her face must be smeared with mascara. The pain in Spike's expression when he'd realised that she wasn't there to be with him had been more than she could bear to see.

Like Spike had said, she wondered exactly why she had come. It had obviously been a mistake. He had looked at her like she was his saviour; like she was a piece of driftwood that a drowning man could cling to. But she wasn't that special. She'd lied to Spike when she'd said that she loved him but was in love with Colin. As soon as she had seen Spike she knew that it was the other way around. She was in love with Spike – she always had been. He was right – she was settling for safe. Settling for the rebound guy. But the alternative scared her to death. The weight of Spike's love scared her to death.

Once back at her car, she sat behind the wheel for thirty minutes before she finally turned the key in the ignition and drove away. Back to Sunnydale. Colin was a good man. Safe was fine…

*~*~*~*

Spike stumbled home unaware of anything but the fresh pain ripping through what was left of his heart. In an echo of that fateful night, Spike bought a bottle of Jack Daniels on the way back to the apartment. He tossed his keys onto the table in the hall and walked into the living room. Oz was at work and Spike was glad that he was. He didn't bother with a glass, just flopped on the couch, unscrewed the cap and took a deep swallow.

The tears that had threatened didn't fall. By the time he'd gotten home, he simply felt numb and good ole 'Jack' was helping that numbness remain. A quarter of the bottle had gone before Spike moved. He'd been staring at an object leaning against the far wall for ten minutes before he got up and walked a little unsteadily towards it. He picked it up and went out to sit on the balcony. The case's catches snapped open under his thumbs and Spike caressed the sleek pale wood with his fingertips before taking the guitar out for the first time in months.

"Hello, love," he whispered. "I've missed you so much."

Spike settled the guitar on his knee and ran a thumb across the strings. He screwed his eyes shut and winced at the out of tune twang it achieved. With the tip of his tongue sticking out between his lips, Spike began to tune it. Finally satisfied that the guitar was fully tuned up, he began to play a few chords.

An hour later he put the guitar down and rushed back inside. He took a couple of swigs from the bottle of JD, leaving it uncapped in his haste, and then he rummaged through the drawers. Spike didn't care that he left them open or that some of their contents spilled onto the floor.

"Yes!"

He snatched up the notepad and pen and ran back to the balcony. Spike picked up his guitar and began to play short bursts of chords in between scribbling the notes on the paper.

Oz could smell the liquor as soon as he opened the door to the apartment.

"Oh, Spike," he whispered.

All day he'd been worried about this happening and now berated himself for not taking the day off to be with his friend. There was no way that Spike wasn't going to freak out after reading the magazine article. Oz picked up the bottle of JD and put its cap back on, shaking his head at the disarray of the drawers.

He heard music playing softly, turned to the hi-fi next to the TV and frowned when he saw that it was switched off. He slowly looked towards the balcony – that's where it seemed to be coming from. Oz saw a sight that he thought that he would never see again; Spike bent over his guitar, quietly singing and writing earnestly in a notepad.

Oz backed up, not wanting to disturb him. He picked up the liquor, unscrewed the cap and smiled. "Good for you, Spike." He raised the bottle to his friend then took a swig and felt his eyes water as the liquor seared his throat. "Think I'll stick to beer," he said with a chuckle. Oz went into the kitchen and pulled a beer out of the refrigerator. He flipped the cap off and drank deeply. "Much better." He sat at the breakfast bar and wondered if it would break Spike's concentration if he ordered Chinese.

*~*~*~*

Nothing that Oz did took Spike's attention away from his song-writing. Not ordering a pizza – by the time he ordered Oz no longer felt like Chinese food – not turning the TV on – not going to bed – not getting up, having a shower and leaving for work the next morning.

"See you later, Spike," called Oz, before going out of the door smiling broadly.

The door slamming shut made Spike glance up. "Huh?" He listened for a moment. "Oz? Mate, are you there?"

When he got no reply he got up and groaned as he set down his guitar and stretched his limbs. His stomach growled loudly and he absentmindedly rubbed it with his left hand as he wandered through the living room to the kitchen.

"Oz?"

Shrugging, he opened the refrigerator and grinned when he saw three slices of pizza on the top shelf.

"Perfect."

He poured a glass of orange juice and sat at the breakfast bar munching happily. He could write. He hadn't lost it. Mind you – he wasn't sure that what he'd written wasn't shite, but at least he'd written something. The style was different from his other songs, there was no denying that, but like the other songs these had come from his heart. The only difference was that now that heart was broken.

Where was Oz? Spike scowled and glanced at his watch, doing a double take when he saw the time.

"Can't be," he muttered. "Bloody hell." His grin returned. He'd been writing all night and his head was still buzzing with lyrics and melodies.

*~*~*~*

Six months later…

Buffy sighed as she lowered herself into the bathtub. The water was a little on the hot side and full of scented bubbles. It was her Friday evening routine. A long relaxing bubble bath followed by curling up on her comfy terracotta coloured sofa. She always ordered in food – tonight's choice was Mexican – and made sure that she had at least half a carton of ice-cream left. A bottle of white wine was chilling in the refrigerator and a DVD was sitting next to the player waiting to be watched.

She'd never regretted her decision to break up with Colin though she hated that she'd hurt him so much – it was a talent she had obviously – hurting men that she loved. After her misguided trip to see Spike, she'd kept up the pretence with Colin for another month before she had the nerve to break it off. Her mother had been furious. Of course, she hadn't told anyone the real reason that she wanted to call off the engagement and move out.

How could she tell anyone that she loved a man that she'd walked away from only a month earlier, leaving him in no doubt that she didn't want him? She might be stupid but she wasn't that dumb.

After her long soak, Buffy got dried, put on her favourite pyjamas and her fluffy pink bath robe before padding barefoot to the small living room. She smiled when the doorbell chimed.

"Perfect!"

She paid the delivery boy and took her food into the kitchen. Food on plate. Wine in glass. Both on tray. Buffy put the DVD in and settled with her feast on the sofa.

"Ugh! Not perfect," she grumbled, turning the film off. "I'll kill Willow for saying this was good."

She took no notice of what programme was on the TV as she took her tray into the kitchen to put the dirty plates in the sink and to get the strawberry cheesecake ice-cream out of the freezer. She dropped her spoon when she heard a familiar voice…

*~*~*~*

Spike splashed some cold water on his face and grimaced at his reflection. He'd just about turned himself inside out in one of the stalls a minute ago and it looked like it. He'd make a ghost look like it had a suntan.

"Hey, man. You okay?"

Spike watched Oz approach through the mirror. "No." He shook his head and turned around, leaning against the basin. "I can't do it. No way. Tell them, yeah?"

Oz laughed. Spike scowled.

"Don't bloody laugh. I'm ill!"

"No you're not. You're nervous, that's all."

Spike's stomach churned again. "That's all? I can't go out there."

"Yes, you can," replied Oz calmly. He put an arm around Spike's shoulder and led him out of the restroom. "You need your makeup fixed. I think you've washed it off," he teased.

"Sod off. Bloody makeup. Feel like a right ponce."

Oz chuckled again, which earned him a dig in the ribs. "How come you're so nervous anyway? It's not like you haven't performed before."

"It's live."

"You've been playing live for years, Spike."

"It's live sodding telly!" Spike's voice got a little shrill.

"Just concentrate on the studio audience. There's only a hundred and fifty of them – you've played gigs to that many."

"They won't let me have my bloody guitar," whined Spike, pouting.

"What difference does that make? You didn't play it when you laid the vocals down in the recording studio."

"I feel naked without it on stage, okay," snapped Spike. "What the hell am I supposed to do with my hands?"

Oz snorted. "I'm sure you'll find something to do with them but remember what time it is – kids might be watching."

Spike couldn't help but laugh, and then he didn't have time to worry when he was caught up in a whirlwind of makeup and last minute instructions.

"How's he doing?"

Oz turned to look at Greg as the executive leant against the wall next to him.

"Okay. Bit nervous, but it is his first live TV appearance. He's missing his guitar." He grinned.

"He'll be great. He's a natural. We wanted him to play with a band of musicians so that the focus would be solely on him. It's his voice I want to promote, not the fact that he can play a guitar," replied Greg. "I couldn't believe it when he walked back into my office that day holding that notebook full of songs. I honestly thought that the next time I saw him would be to pay for his other songs."

"So you think that he'll make it?" asked Oz.

"I'm certain of it," Greg stated.

Oz nodded. "You're right."

The studio was silenced and the show got underway. When it was halfway through, Spike walked to his mark on the small stage off to the left and waited at the microphone.

"Now we'd like to bring you an exclusive. Newly signed to TML records and with his first single 'Break Even' to be released in two weeks time, I'm delighted to introduce you to…" The presenter waved a hand towards the stage. "Spike."

The audience applauded politely in response to the cue cards being brandished by the floor staff. Spike smiled shyly at the camera through his eyelashes, head held at an angle, and both hands gripped the mic's stand as if he feared it would try to make a run for it. The soft introduction began to play and Spike's nerves left him.

He sang the first few lines almost unaccompanied by any music and the audience as one seemed to sit up and take note as his voice rang out so hauntingly.

_"I'm still alive but I'm barely breathing__  
__Just prayed to a God that I don't believe in__  
__Cos I got time while she got freedom__  
__Cos when a heart breaks it don't break even…"_

Buffy raced into the room and stared at the TV in disbelief. Spike. On TV. Spike singing. Her legs gave way and she sank to the floor missing the sofa by about six inches. She grabbed the remote control and turned it up.

He looked amazing. Tight jeans, nothing new there, and a dark coloured button down shirt. His hair was still streaked rather than totally white but it was lighter than when she'd last seen him.

_"Her best days will be some of my worse…"_

Buffy missed the next line as he looked directly into the camera. She shuffled forwards and touched the screen.

_"While I'm wide awake she's got no trouble sleeping…"_

"No" Buffy wailed when the camera moved to show the musicians behind him. As if the cameraman had heard her, it returned to Spike's face.

_"What am I supposed to do when the best part of me was always you?__  
__What am I supposed to do when I'm all choked up and you're okay?__  
__I'm falling to pieces…"_

Tears began to stream down Buffy's face. She knew exactly when he'd written this song. It had to have been on the day she'd met him in the café. But she'd been falling to pieces too. She growled and thumped the sofa with frustration. Now he was the one who'd moved on – who was okay.

_"They say bad things happen for a reason,__  
__But no wise words gonna stop the bleeding.__  
__Cos she's moved on while I'm still grieving, __  
__And when a heart breaks it don't break even, even no…"_

She couldn't take her eyes from his face.

_"One still in love while the other one's leaving,__  
__Cos when a heart breaks no it don't break even…"_

When the song ended, Spike waited for the enthusiastic applause to die down before walking over to where the show's presenter was sitting. As Spike sat in the red chair to the left side if him he hoped fervently that his makeup hadn't made him as orange as the presenter – the man's skin was clashing with the chairs!

Looking straight to the camera the presenter said, "So what do you think? I'm sure that the young man now sitting beside me is going to be huge. The audience here thinks so too." He smiled as the studio audience clapped and cheered.

Turning smoothly to Spike, he said, "Welcome to the show, Spike."

Spike smiled nervously. "Thanks, David. I'm happy to be here."

David asked Spike a few questions about how he came to be in L.A. and how long he'd been writing and performing. Spike relaxed more with each easily answered question and even managed to laugh when David asked him what his real name was.

"Not telling you that one on live TV. You'd lose a couple of viewers when they died laughing."

"As bad as that?" David said with a grin.

"Probably worse," replied Spike.

David's face became serious. "'Break Even' is a very beautiful song but it's also a very sad one. I have the feeling that there's a story behind it, am I right?"

In the sidelines, both Oz and Greg tensed. Greg had coached Spike about how to answer questions like these but they both were still worried that Spike might take exception to them or get overly emotional. Spike had confessed all to Greg when he'd shown him the new songs, wanting to come clean with the man.

Spike glanced away from David's face and nodded. "There's a story behind every song that I write."

Greg and Oz sighed with relief. It looked like he was going to be all right.

"Do you want to share it with us?"

"Um…not much to tell really. I thought that I'd met my soul mate but it wasn't a two way street and she's now moved on."

"I'll be your girlfriend, Spike!" a voice rang out from the audience, prompting everyone to laugh and Spike to blush beneath his makeup.

"What do you think, Spike? Should we get her number for you?" joked David.

Spike smiled sadly. "Wouldn't be any good. Like the song says. I haven't really moved on. He twisted his hands together and looked at his feet before remembering being told to look either at the camera or David and looking up again.

David reached down and picked up a CD, holding it up to the camera. "The album is a mixture of love songs both happy and sad and it's going to be released in two month's time. There's a dedication on it…"

"Noticed that, did you," said Spike with a rueful smile. "I told them that the font was still too big."

"It says 'Joan – better to have loved and lost you than never to have loved you at all.' I take it that's the girl you're talking about?"

"Yeah, and I apologise to Will Shakespeare for messing with his words," replied Spike. "The album would never have been made but for her. She's with someone else now and I'm glad that she's happy."

The audience gave out a soft 'Aww' that made Spike cringe a little. _Bloody ponce._

"I'm so busy right now that I haven't got time for anything but my music," he added quickly. "I'm already working on the next album and there's a tour that starts in a few months time."

"Well, I hope you'll find time to come back and join us again after the tour to tell us all about it." David offered Spike his hand.

"I'm sure I will," said Spike shaking it firmly. "Thanks for having me on the show."

The two men stood up.

"Ladies and gentlemen…Spike," said David giving the audience their cue to clap and cheer once more.

When the camera turned away from them, Spike walked off the set to where Oz and Greg were waiting.

"Well?" he asked anxiously. "Did I come over like a total prat?"

"You were great, Spike," said Greg, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Even though you really are a total Pratt!" teased Oz.

"You are so dead!" replied Spike with a grin. "But really? I was okay? The song sounded okay?"

"Relax, man. You were awesome," Oz said sincerely.

"Come on, there's a car waiting," said Greg. "Let's go eat."

*~*~*~*

Buffy sat on the floor totally stunned. He still loved her. Even after all that she'd done. Spike still loved her.

"Arrgh! What a mess!" she yelled. "Why is life so complicated?"

When she'd left Colin, she'd toyed with the idea of going to see Spike again but her courage had failed her. She thought that after hurting him again so badly that he'd be angry with her and wouldn't want to see her. Now that he was on the brink of fame how could she go to him now? He'd just think that it was the success that had brought her back – not her love for the penniless musician that she'd first met. He'd really think that she was that materialistic girl he'd accused her of being in the schoolyard that night as they argued next to Angel's Ferrari.

Buffy crawled onto the sofa and hugged herself tightly. She finally had an inkling of how much hurt Spike had endured. The tears felt hot on her skin as she cried herself to sleep.

*~*~*~*

Spike's sleep was untroubled these days. He was too exhausted to even dream. As soon as his head hit the pillow, he was out for the count. Since his first TV appearance, he'd been in a constant round of media interviews. 'Break Even' to everyone's amazement, had gone straight to number one in the charts. It was more than the label had ever dreamed of. They would have been happy with a place in the top twenty for his first release.

The album was due to be released the following week and a month after that the touring started. All in all life was pretty good for Spike these days. He'd been back to London to see his parents and apologised for worrying them so much when he'd returned from L.A. Spike had insisted that he paid for them to go on a luxury world cruise as a thank you for supporting him, and they'd gratefully accepted.

He still stayed at Oz's apartment but another in the same building had come up for sale and he was currently in the process of buying it. The building had its own security and so even with his rising fame it was a good place to live.

He'd gotten the day off today. After a long lie in and a quick shower, he was ready to go out. He had no idea what to do. Oz was out of the country on business and he didn't really have any proper friends in L.A. apart from him. Spike decided to go for a walk and pulled on a baseball hat before stepping out of the apartment.

_Hell, I'll be wearing shades all the time next._ He grinned at the thought. As yet he was pretty safe from people spotting who he was as long as he covered his all too recognisable hair.

When he'd dreamed of having his songs recorded, he'd never really thought about the fame that would go with it and it scared him a little. What would he do if it got to the stage that he was recognised everywhere that he went? As he walked along the street, he grinned and decided that he'd become a recluse – buy a ranch in Montana or somewhere and only venture off it when work dictated it.

He wasn't surprised when he found himself outside the café that he used to frequent daily. He hadn't been in here for months, not since the day he'd last seen Buffy. For the first time, he didn't get a pang in his heart when he thought of her. A slight smile played on his lips as he went inside. Maybe he was finally moving on? Accepting what could never be?

The waitress did a double-take when she saw him, before grinning and putting a chocolate covered donut on a plate and giving it to him. "I'll bring your coffee over."

"Thanks."

Spike was pleased to see that 'his' table was free, and slid into the seat facing the window. The waitress brought his coffee. "I guess we know why you haven't been in lately," she said. "I'm really pleased for you." She grinned broadly and then added quietly. "We'll be able to put a plaque outside when you're famous and say that you used to come in here everyday. Business will triple I'm sure!"

"Um…thank you," mumbled Spike, face flushing a bit. It was all a little surreal.

He bit into his donut as she walked away and almost choked when he heard his name spoken softly behind him. He drank a mouthful of coffee and cursed as it scalded his tongue. With his eyes watering from all the coughing, Spike turned and saw a blurry figure standing in the aisle. He blinked rapidly, not trusting what he thought he could see. But he wasn't mistaken.

"Hi, Spike," said Buffy, not meeting his eye. "I never really thought that you'd be here."

Spike just stared at her, self-consciously brushing icing from his lips.

"Do you mind if I sit down?" she asked.

He shook his head.

She took the seat opposite him like she had the last time that she'd seen him. His eyes strayed to the ring finger of her left hand. It was bare. Buffy noticed his gaze.

"I split up with him," she said.

"W-when?" Spike finally found his voice although it sounded a little croaky.

"About a month after I came to see you. I realised that you'd been right. I was settling for safe and that wasn't fair to Colin. He deserved more than that."

Spike's voice left him again. His mouth opened but he closed it without saying a word. What could he say?

"So…you look better than when I saw you last," Buffy said, letting her fingers touch his hand.

"You look worse," blurted Spike before he realised what he'd said. "I mean…I'm sorry… you—"

"It's all right, Spike. I'm doing okay. Just not sleeping so good, I guess."

"I didn't mean…you're still beautiful."

Buffy smiled and looked down. She didn't feel beautiful, not inside and not out. She hadn't expected him to be here otherwise she would have rehearsed what to say. Her mouth was dry and she could feel her palms beginning to sweat.

"Spike…I…" She took a deep breath. "I love you. I always have. I always will." There – she'd said it. It was out in the open.

Spike just stared at her, his blue eyes clouded with pain. He'd wanted to hear that for so long, but now… He'd managed to just about get his head straight and couldn't afford to go off the rails again. What if she came back into his life and it didn't work out? He couldn't go back to how he was when Oz rescued him from London. He couldn't take being rejected again.

"Buffy."

His voice wasn't much more than a whisper but the finality in it made her tense and tears glistened in her eyes. He'd tried to prepare himself for if this moment ever occurred. He'd even written a song about it. He could hear it playing in his mind…

_"Sometimes tears are all there is to say__  
__Sometimes your first scars won't ever fade…"_

"I don't know what to say…"

_"Sometime we don't learn from our mistakes__  
__Sometimes we've no choice but to walk away…"_

Buffy stifled a sob. "I know. I don't blame you. So don't say anything. Can we just sit?"

"I don't think so, Buffy. I can't do this, okay?" Spike got up and walked out of the café.

_"Now I'm alive and my ghosts are gone,__  
__I've shed all the pain I've been holding on__  
__The cure for a heart is to move along, move along…"_

Spike was a block from the café before he whirled around, startling those around him as he yelled, "Who the fuck are you kidding?" He ran as fast as he could.

_"What don't kill a heart only makes it strong…"_

"Please let her be there. Please let her be there," he repeated in time to his pounding feet.

He flung open the door and stared at the table – it was empty.

"No!"

"She's only just gone," said the waitress. "You can catch up to her."

Spike shot her a grateful smile and raced back outside. He stood on his toes to try to spot her. Beginning to panic as he searched up and down the street, Spike took a deep breath and roared, "BUFFY!"

For a moment he thought that he'd missed her. That he had finally, irrevocably screwed up. He crossed the street and stood on the corner, looking in all directions. Thrusting his hands in his pockets, shoulders slumping, he was staring bleakly at the floor as he turned around to go home. He bumped into someone and raised his head as he muttered an apology. Spike stopped short. It was Buffy.

"Do you ever look where you're going when you're walking on this corner?"

Her face was tearstained but her smile made his heart skip a beat.

"Least I wasn't carrying coffee and donuts this time," he said, his voice thick with emotion.

They stared at each other before Spike grabbed her and crushed her to his body, taking her off her feet and swinging her around.

"Oh, God, Buffy. I love you so much." He buried his face in her neck and sent shivers down her spine as he kissed her.

"I love you too," she whispered in his ear.

He set her on the sidewalk and took her face in his hands. "This will be forever – no going back – you know that, right?"

She nodded and stretched up to kiss him. "I need that. I need you so badly."

"Marry me?" His voice was tremulous.

Buffy grinned at the worried expression on his face. Did he really still not think that she wanted to be with him until she died?

"In a heartbeat. Feel like taking a trip to Vegas?"

He threw his head back and laughed. "Not sure your mum would like that, pet."

"I don't care!" retorted Buffy. "I want it to be official. I want to be yours."

"You'll always be mine, Buffy. Don't need a scrap of paper to make it real."

Buffy's bottom lip stuck out and she pouted, but her eyes were smiling. "So, you don't want to marry me after all?"

Spike's teeth nibbled at her lip. "Oh, I'll marry you, all right, but it'll be done properly. I want everyone to know that I'm marrying you; I'm not going to skulk off like I'm ashamed of you. I want it to be perfect."

He took her hand in his and they began to walk towards Spike's home.

"Everything's perfect when I'm with you," she replied.

Spike looked down at her upturned face and agreed with her. "Perfect."

There was probably a song in there somewhere…

The End


End file.
